


Bringer of Ashes

by buttcatcher



Series: Drogon ain't got nothin on Jaskier [2]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: BAMF Jaskier | Dandelion, Emotionally Constipated Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Hurt Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Immortal Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, M/M, but not a wyvern, not gonna lie i pictured the dragon looking almost exactly like drogon, this is sorta pre geralt/jaskier but they're getting to it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-24
Updated: 2020-05-24
Packaged: 2021-03-03 04:34:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,415
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24358894
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/buttcatcher/pseuds/buttcatcher
Summary: It happens when Jaskier finally manages to convince himself there hadn’t been a single thing he could have done to keep Geralt from eventually tossing him aside like so many others in his life had.It was a warm summer day with clear skies, the perfect kind of day Jaskier would have loved to compose an ode to on the road beside a brown mare and her rider.But alas, Destiny has never cared about what he wants. So of course she decides to throw shit at him when he’s beginning to rebuild himself to reflect how life was before Geralt, before heartbreak tore him apart like claw marks from a beast.
Relationships: Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon & Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Drogon ain't got nothin on Jaskier [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1758499
Comments: 49
Kudos: 1110





	Bringer of Ashes

**Author's Note:**

> I can't stop writing, this whole idea won't leave me alone lol

Ever since the night Geralt and Ciri had finally managed to track down Jaskier, he hadn’t been able to stop thinking about the man. 

There was something off about the bard that had gone unnoticed for years. Something feral, unhinged; _broken_ in the most dangerous way. Still, those cornflower blue eyes were the same as they had always been as well as his voice, though it carried more heat in it than Geralt thinks he’s ever heard before. 

_Well that’s not fair._

Golden eyes close against the painful memory of those whispered words drenched in agony and sorrow. He had been the one to do this, to steal the happiness the man wore like a second skin in one outburst. An apology sorely needed to be had, though for all his tracking skills, the bard was exceptionally difficult to locate when he wanted to be.

It was as though the man was choosing to hide, _choosing_ to cover his tracks so guilty witchers couldn’t locate him.

His evasiveness made sense, of course. Geralt had been a right arse to the bard who had only ever wanted to cheer him up and offer friendship unlike anything the witcher had ever experienced. That was what he told himself when he set out looking for Jaskier, bumping into Cirilla along the way, but after the display of agility and _power_ the lithe man displayed in the forest…

Geralt had a lot to think about.

Every memory with Jaskier was suddenly under scrutiny; what had he missed? Had Jaskier really been that capable the entire time they’ve been traveling together? It was hard to believe the person screaming at the moon after taking down a group of four men twice his size was the same man who cried when he drunkenly dropped his songbook in a puddle, who frowned and argued every time Geralt would tell him he was too weak to tag along on certain contracts as though he were personally insulted by the insinuation that he couldn't handle his own in a fight.

It was Cirilla who connected the dots one night a week after they last spotted Jaskier. 

“That was him, wasn’t it? The one we’ve been following?” She must think the dark is enough to hide her curious expression as she pokes their meager campfire with a stick, but Geralt can see more than she probably suspects.

A hum is all that leaves his throat as he busies himself with laying out their bedrolls beside one another, suddenly desperate for something to do with his hands if only to get his mind to quiet down.

But as is the case with many children, nonverbal and short answers simply aren’t enough. “Why didn’t we just go to him and apologize?” 

Guilt once again settled thickly in the back of his throat. Cirilla hadn’t seen the bandits attack the bard, but she had heard, and Geralt prayed that information would be enough to lend credibility to what he was about to say. “I couldn’t.” He confessed quietly, rough palms smoothing over the tattered fabric of their bedrolls, silently wishing his fingers were weaving through soft chocolate locks instead. The phantom feeling of close cropped nails gently massaging oils and soaps into his scalp prickle along his hairline in a way that makes his heart simultaneously ache and beat harder. “He’s… angry at me. Not ready to hear an apology yet.”

The look Cirilla gives him is enough to make the guilt in his chest squeeze against his heart like a battering ram.

*

It happens when Jaskier finally manages to convince himself there hadn’t been a single thing he could have done to keep Geralt from eventually tossing him aside like so many others in his life had. 

It was a warm summer day with clear skies, the perfect kind of day Jaskier would have loved to compose an ode to on the road beside a brown mare and her rider.

But alas, Destiny has never cared about what he wants. So of course she decides to throw shit at him when he’s beginning to rebuild himself to reflect how life was before Geralt, before heartbreak tore him apart like claw marks from a beast.

He had just finished restocking his travel bags with enough provisions to last a week or two on the way to Novigrad when a little boy came crashing into the modest market looking like he had seen the slaughter of an entire race. 

Jaskier had fought alongside the Elves as much as he could during the Great Cleansing despite his family’s repeated warnings to not get involved. He recognized the look.

“N-Nilfgaard,” The petrified and dirty little boy stammered out to the suddenly silent people in the market, his curly blonde hair plastered to his skull in sweat. “The- by the stream, there’s a man! He’s fighting the Nilfgaardians, but he’s- there are too many!”

And just like that, the market exploded in chaos. Every single person who had previously been enjoying themselves perusing stalls and inspecting their wares was now hurriedly closing up shop and shuffling their loved ones back into their homes, a blanket of terror and anxiety permeating the air so thickly that Jaskier could choke on it.

The little boy who sounded the alarm seemed just as lost in the commotion as Jaskier did, though he noticeably wasn’t heading in any specific direction, choosing instead to stand frozen still as Jaskier made his way to him with the intention of helping him go home. Call him what you want, but he was never able to deny helping a defenseless child when he had the power to do something.

That is, until the boy turned watery brown eyes to him and whispered in a haunted tone, “He’s all alone. There are _hundreds.”_

Jaskier closed his eyes against the way his heart ached at the helplessness in the child’s eyes. If hundreds of Nilfgaardian soldiers were set on taking this town, then whoever was on the outskirts of the forest this place was nestled in was a fool.

A brave, stupid fool.

“Do you know the man?” Jaskier asked calmly as he knelt down to the child’s height, uncaring about the mud and Melitele knows what else embedding itself to the fabric of his baby blue trousers. “Is he your father, or do you have somewhere else to hide?”

Small hands quickly rubbed away tears and snot as the child began to heave sobs that rattled his tiny chest. “H-he’s big and has white hair, and a pretty brown horse,” more sniffling was muffled by the fabric of the kid’s sleeve, “He’s got two swords. There was a kid with him too, but he told them to run when the soldiers started getting close. He told me to run, too.”

Dread wasn’t an emotion Jaskier experienced much before his falling out with his family and subsequent dismissal from Geralt, but it was a feeling sinking in his gut like a rock the more the child described the bloodbath that was about to occur at the edge of the wood.

Not many men had white hair and walked around with two huge swords strapped to their back, though the brown horse and the child part were common enough. 

Still, it was too much a coincidence for Jaskier to ignore. If Geralt was about to face off with a good chunk of the Nilfgaardian army by himself, then he was more a fool than Jaskier could have ever dreamed. Mutagens or not, Geralt was still only one man, and one man could not fell an army alone.

Especially one with the brutal reputation Nilfgaard had. If they managed to get their hands on the witcher and drag him to a cell without killing him, Jaskier is sure the man would wish he would have died beside that stream within minutes.

Torture was a funny thing. It broke not only the body, but the mind and soul as well. Jaskier had seen kings and queens rule and fall, had seen the prideful become the pitiful, had seen arrogance transformed to terror and humility with the right angle of a knife. He had seen it all, and no creature was as exceptional at torture as the dungeon masters of Nilfgaard. 

“Please, mister,” An insistent tug on his doublet had him refocusing his attention on the child in front of him, those big brown eyes so full of sorrow and hope that Jaskier couldn’t help the fierce desire to make sure this boy stayed safe. “Please save him.”

*

Of course they were being tracked. When had life ever gone the way Geralt hoped it would?

It wasn’t Cirilla’s fault; there was no way for her to know the cloak given to her by her grandmother had a tracking spell placed on it. No way for her to know aside from someone like Mousesack telling her, though from what Geralt had caught between the princess’s screams during her night terrors, his old friend hadn’t gotten the chance. 

No, the blame landed solely on Geralt, who hadn’t noticed the way his medallion hummed ever so slightly when the little girl tucked herself to his chest when they tried to catch some rest. He hadn’t noticed they were being tracked, and now the only safety he could give the lioness was the name of a man he hadn’t seen in years, his horse, and the chance to run.

Geralt wasn’t a dreamer; he wasn’t delusional about his capabilities, and despite every extra mutagen that had been pumped into his body and remade him from the inside out, he knew he didn’t stand a chance against an entire army.

It just wasn’t possible. The possibility of fleeing with Ciri had gone out the window the moment he caught sight of the sea of black and gold coming at them from over the hillside. The least he could do was make a dent in their numbers and give her enough time to ditch the cloak and make a run for it.

His only hope was that somehow, Destiny would hear him and guide her to Jaskier. He was the only person he could trust to keep her safe, what with Yennefer practically comatose from her contribution to the Battle of Sodden Hill. That hope was what allowed him to steel himself and draw his steel sword, the weight of the weapon like an old friend as he flexed his grip on it and readied himself to cast Yrden, a faint purple glow buzzing at his fingertips as the soldiers came close enough to make out their faces.

Cirilla knows what to say to Jaskier when she eventually runs into him. Geralt had been sure to tell her exactly the words he had been yearning to tell the downtrodden bard ever since those blasted accusations left his lips what felt like a lifetime ago.

Exactly the words he would not get the chance to say, to beg the bard’s forgiveness for his inability to come to terms with himself.

If Vesemir were here, Geralt is sure he would have gotten a smack to the back of his head for realizing truths he had fought to ignore for years.

Then again, if Vesemir were here, Geralt would actually have a chance making it out of this field in one piece, but the old wolf rarely left the Kaer Morhen. If he timed this right, he could slow enough of them down to make a dent in the first wave of the onslaught before taking too much damage, a technique his mentor had taught him long ago. It would have to be enough.

That was what he told himself as the army advanced. They were only half a field away and gaining quickly; Geralt breathed a quick apology for everyone who would be saddened by his demise and a silent wish to be buried with his brothers, at the end of it all.

The shouting of soldiers and the clanking of armor soon drowned out all other sound as Geralt raised his sword.

A single beat passed before the advancing army halted in its tracks.

A roar that sounded like a thousand beasts screaming all at once shook the land by sheer volume alone as the Nilfgaardian army halted their advance to glance around in confusion and not a little bit of fear at the noise. Geralt himself paused as the screech met his ears, the sound unlike anything he had ever heard before as the soft purple light from the Yrden sign faded from his fingertips. 

A little voice in the back of his mind told him not to be afraid, the voice suspiciously sounding like the bard he had driven away, but the adrenaline in his bloodstream kept him from thinking at all when the biggest Wyvern he had ever seen descended from a place higher up on the hill leading to the town behind Geralt, it’s massive leathery wine colored wings carrying it easily in a glide above the trees until it was landing with a screech between the stunned cavalry and equally stunned witcher. 

The ground trembled as the weight of the beast hit the earth, seemingly uncaring that its back was exposed to a witcher as it took in the scene before it with the talons on its hind legs dug into the dirt in preparation to lunge.

It was a Wyvern unlike anything he had ever seen, royal or otherwise. It was simply massive, glittering crimson scales reflecting sunlight on its back and muted gold scales on its underbelly as it threw its head back and let out a furious shriek through sharp teeth the size of a human’s arm. Its long scaly tail whipped and lashed behind it as though it were personally offended by the presence of so many soldiers on its land.

And for all Geralt knew, that could very well be the case.

The witcher had but a moment to come to terms with what was happening before a single soldier charged toward the hulking beast with his sword raised, no doubt hoping to lead a charge that would take the creature down. No other men followed his lead, and as he closed in on the Wyvern too close to be able to retreat, the creature snapped its incredible jaws over the man until its teeth sunk into the soldier’s knees before whipping its head back and forth in a way Geralt had seen wolves do to kill prey, though this particular Wyvern didn’t seem keen on eating the man. No, instead, it spat out the upper half of the man after his lower torso separated itself with a squelching noise and a spray of organs, painting those formidable rows of teeth and the field below it in a splash of red.

It was then that Geralt caught a glimpse of the creature from the side, just enough to see it had arms and was not in fact a bipedal Wyvern like he had initially assumed in his shock.

It wasn’t a Wyvern at all.

What stood before him now was a being of legend, so exceedingly rare that he wouldn’t be surprised if he was the only witcher to ever encounter one.

No; he had met one before, a kind man who led them to the top of a mountain, but this beast was much larger and as terrifying as it was familiar.

The voice in the back of his head screamed at him to draw the conclusion.

_Dragon._

Screams of terror filled the air as the terrified Nilfgaardian soldiers scrambled to adjust their formation, not having expected a monster of this caliber getting in their way. Opponents of the human variety were what they specialized in, and while monsters and magic were more Geralt’s realm of expertise, there was nothing he could hope to do to a creature so ancient and so clearly _pissed._

The soldiers didn’t get a chance to move more than a foot before the winged beast reared back and a smell like a thousand campfires filled the air, Geralt’s sensitive nostrils burning as the dragon opened its maw and a crackling noise met his ears. The Nilfgaardians seemed to understand what was about to happen and quickly tried their best to scatter, horses and foot soldiers taking off in different directions as the beast lunged forward and released a torrent of fire upon the field, sparing no living being its wrath as the sky turned gray with smoke and the screams of the dying were all that could be heard. 

A wall of heat hit Geralt in a blast as his unlikely savior torched the Nilfgaardian retreat, forcing him to his knees with gasps for air as the acrid stench of death and burning flesh permeated the field. Sensitive catlike eyes blinked furiously against the sting of smoke as Geralt forced himself to resist tearing his gaze away from the massacre in front of him.

Standing in the blaze of its own fire was the dragon, seemingly bathing in the flames licking its scales as it systematically hunted down each soldier it could find still breathing and either crushing it under foot or setting it aflame until not a single soul was left unscathed.

That is, aside from Geralt and the dragon.

Silence echoed in his ears as the shrieks died off, the only sound the crackling of flames eating corpses and the rush of blood in his ears. Adrenaline that had been pushed aside to make way for shock slowly trickled back into his body, limbs subtly trembling from the excess energy and not having an outlet for it as the dragon huffed around a stream of smoke and pinned its eyes on Geralt, who quickly found himself rooted to the spot.

Blue. Those feline eyes, so much like Geralt’s own, were a stunning cornflower blue, almost glowing in their ethereal light. The crimson of its scales made its eyes stand out in sharp contrast as it cocked its head in an assessing manner before a rumbling sort of sound left its long throat. 

Somehow, Geralt knew what it was trying to ask.

“I’m alright.” He felt stupid saying it out loud when he knew dragons could speak through their minds, much like Borch had, but something told him this particular dragon, whoever it is, wasn’t interested in trying that. 

Still, he had to force himself not to flinch as the dragon lumbered close enough to lower its massive horned head to Geralt’s line of sight. This close up, the beast was even more stunning than it had been from half a field away. Glittering scales the color of dark blood reflected the light of the flames still burning behind it, the expression on its enormous face somehow gentle and full of sorrow despite the rows of glistening teeth.

Nostrils half the size of Geralt’s arm flickered as the beast scented him before giving his chest a gentle nudge with its snout, intelligent reptilian eyes blinking toward the village he had told Ciri to run through. 

It was a message, that was clear enough, but Geralt still couldn’t wrap his head around the unbelievable fact that he had survived. 

He had survived. Has been given another chance to make things right despite him always ruining whatever his hands touched. 

So despite every instinct in him screaming to not let his guard down, mutagen induced or hereditary, Geralt ripped the worn glove off his hand and slowly placed it on the dragon’s hot snout, the temperature of those smooth scales nearly burning his skin. “Thank you.” He whispered, holding the dragon’s gaze as it blinked and digested his words.

The red dragon simply stared at him for a moment longer before straightening and opening its jaws to let out the most sorrowful noise Geralt had ever heard. It was a sound that reverberated in his very being, burning his lungs and almost bringing tears to his eyes as the fires around them seemed to dim. The skin of his hand burned as the dragon’s huge hind legs and forearms pushed it off the ground and its enormous wings worked to make it airborne, the gust of wind resulting from that incredible wingspan putting out the rest of the flames. 

Treetops bent away from the field as the dragon climbed higher into the air, red scales reflecting the sun as it disappeared above the smoke and out of sight.

**Author's Note:**

> Yeah I posted twice in one day, oops. 
> 
> Also I pictured Drogon the entire time while writing this so that's what I'm hoping to depict the dragon looking like. Please let me know if you liked the story!


End file.
